It's the Least Wonderful Time of the Year
by Ash Light
Summary: Harry Potter, Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy each manage to stuff up Valentine's day in their own unique way. Swearing, violence and the throwing of very heavy books at nasty Slytherin boys' heads ensues. Rated for language and the said throwing of very heavy books. Ron/Hermione, Harry/Ginny and Draco/Astoria.
1. Chapter 1

**title:** The Least Wonderful Time of the Year

**summary:** Harry Potter, Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy are decidedly Not Good at Valentine's day.

**notes: **So this has been brewing for quite a while, but never quite got around to typing it up! Marco Prettia already has a quick mention in_ Baby It's Cold Outside_, and appears even less popular here...

**disclaimers:** Draco's failed date comes from an episode of _Frasier_, the rest from JKR.

-o-

Valentine's Day

Valentine's Day.

A day of romance. Of love. Of tenderness and adoration and all things sappy and sweet.

A day which sends chills of the utmost horror through the spine of ever living, breathing boyfriend. on the face of the planet.

Ronald Weasley was no different.

He could be romantic, alright? He could be sweet, he could be touching, he could even be damn chivalrous, thankyouverymuch. He'd braved _spiders_ for Hermione. He'd defended her from Death Eaters, and enchanted fire, and Slytherins, and _dammit the spiders_ _oh God the spiders_. So yeah. He was a pretty suave, charming, romantic kinda guy.

It was just a shame that none of that tended to come across during his Valentine's plans.

The red roses that had been infected with the Venemous Tentactula seeds and tried to eat her nose. The rather over-enthusiastic cherubs that had come in at the wrong moment and started firing their little arrows _at her_. The singing, serenading card that had tap-danced across her desk at work in extremely inventive but admittedly rather shrill harmony, _just_ as she was being inspected for a promotion – yes, that had been a particularly bad one. Oh, but when he messed up Valentine's Day, he messed up in _style._

But not today. Today was going to be _good_. He had it all planned out – a simple walk through the twilight parks of London, a quiet dinner back at home, a very pretty and very sparkly necklace hidden under her pillow (that most certainly had not been poisoned, cursed, or in any other way been tampered with. He'd checked. Twice). It was going to be a _good_ Valentine's Day, it was _not_ going to be stuffed up, and he was finally going to get the credit and awesome-boyfriend status that he deserved. _Finally_.

All he had to do was get through one last bit of shopping at Hogsmede without messing anything up.

How hard could that be?

"What do you think?" Hermione asked, holding up two identical towels imbued with Essence of Dragon Fire (guaranteed to dry your hair in seconds). "The topaz or the cobalt?"

He even managed to smile. Winningly. Without straining anything. "I'm no good at picking out that kind of thing, 'Mione. You choose."

No snarky comments _and_ technically he hadn't even lied. Bonus points!

"Alright then. Oh, by the way, my parents want to know if we're still on for Saturday?"

"Sounds good."

Dinner with the insufferable parents that usually he'd have to be Imperiused into. He was on a roll!

"That's wonderful, Ron," Hermione shot him a smile, one of the special ones that always made him feel as if his bones were slowly melting. "And I was going to say, I really like your idea of Italy for the summer. I had a letter from Viktor the other day, he says it has some wonderful countryside. He went there for a Quidditch tournament, you know."

"That's grea – wait, what?"

His awesome-boyfriend material was diverse enough to cover her parents, her shopping habits, her books, even her ridiculous campaigns for house elves. It was not, repeat _not_ enough to cover the unpleasant realisation that Hermione was still writing to Viktor bloody Krum.

"You're still writing to _Krum_?"

Hermione blinked, genuinely surprised. "Well, yes, just as a pen friend. Surely you knew about that?"

Well, truth be told, no. He'd not _thought_ about it as such – whenever Hermione mentioned dear old _Vikky_ he simply tuned out and amused himself by imagining that she was telling him about Krum's very unfortunate, very timely and very painful demise at the teeth of a rogue Manticore. Come to think of it, he might have missed out on some valuable information because of that.

"No! Of course not!" He scowled resentfully at a pack of Exploding Snap cards. "Didn't think you were still writing to him."

"I'm sure I mentioned it."

"I must have missed that."

Read: _I must have tuned out while you were telling me._

Still, best not to mention that. Awesome-boyfriend routine and all that.

"Well, I'm sorry." She frowned gently, peered at him with those warm dark eyes. "If it makes you uncomfortable…"

Ha! That was it, all he needed! See, by employing the awesome-boyfriend technique he could just sit and wait and let Hermione agree to doing something without even having to ask. And here she was, saying she'd never write, speak, see or even think about Viktor sodding Krum ever again as long as they both would live…

"I'd like that."

"Well, alright. I'll tell you before I next write to him – and when he writes to me, of course. I promise, from now on I'll keep you in the loop."

Yes!

Wait.

No!

"No, I didn't mean that – I meant not ever again!"

"Beg pardon?"

"I meant, no speaking to Krum, no seeing Krum, no writing to Krum! I'm uncomfortable with _all_ that!"

"Ron, surely – "

"No, no, I'm putting my foot down," he retorted sternly, speaking quickly simply because Hermione was tapping her foot and directing a look, _that_ Look, the _really_ narrowed one, his way, and maybe it was a good idea to get all his words out before he thought twice about how stupid this was. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to be contacting Krum at all anymore."

Her lips twisted darkly. Uh oh. "A 'good idea'?"

"That's right!"

What was it George was always saying? '_Let your girlfriend know who's boss'. _Then again, that was after Angelina had kicked him out to sleep on the sofa for the third night running…

Oh, what the hell. George knew more about women than he did! Then again he was pretty sure Kreacher the house elf knew more about women than he did. There was that particularly creepy attachment the creature had seemed to have with Sirius' mum…

He shook his head, mainly to stop his mind from going to deep and dark places of Wrongness and Madness and All Bad Things. "I don't want you speaking to Viktor Krum anymore! I forbid it!"

It was probably a good thing that at that precise moment the bell of Dervish and Banges' door burst into an unholy racket as Pig made his rather inopportune entrance, zooming through the door like a miniature – befeathered – bludger with wings. Rather than continue making eye-contact with Hermione, who could outstare a Basilisk even on a good day, he hastily grabbed the letter from the demented feathery git as he zoomed around the store and opened it.

Aw, bless, it was from Lavender. True, he'd found her annoying as hell when they were dating, but now that she was firmly engaged to Justin Finch-Fletchley (not a bad bloke, considering he was apparently one of the few guys in their year who _hadn't_ stuck his tongue down his sister's throat) she wasn't too horrific anymore – and quite thankfully, no longer called him 'Won-Won'. He'd yet to ask Justin if she had dubbed him 'Jus-Jus' yet, but it was only a matter of time.

Anyway, it was nice that Lavender occasionally dropped him a line. It was the sort of thing girls did, he supposed. And she was an ex-classmate, after all.

"Lavender sends her best to you, 'Mione," he murmured absent-mindedly, eyes scanning the paper and therefore unable to see the expression of downright fury that crossed her face. "She and Justin are going camping in the Forest of Dean…hey, wasn't that where you and Harry – "

He heard the intake of breath mere seconds before the explosion.

"_What did you just say to me!?"_

Something somewhere had just gone horribly wrong.

"…Forest of Dean?"

"No," Hermione uttered through gritted teeth. "_Lavender_ sent you that letter?"

"Well, yeah."

…He had the feeling that he ought to be feeling terribly guilty and grovelling on his knees like a witless worm; but for the life of him he couldn't work out what it _was_ he was meant to be apologising _for_.

His girlfriend took in a deep, steady breath. This was something of a good sign, as it least while she was taking in a deep breath she couldn't _yell _at him, although Ron couldn't help notice that her eyes were starting to spark in that dangerous, _Hermione_ way that they had. And was it just him, or had her hair, unruly at the best of times, started to look a little…cracklier?

As if lightening was beginning to spiral through it.

That image was just the tiniest bit unnerving.

"So…" she began, incredibly slowly. "Let me get this straight. You don't want me talking to Viktor…ever again, by the sounds of it; in fact, you 'forbid it' because he asked me out for an _incredibly brief_ period of time in our fourth year. And yet…_and yet_…you find it perfectly acceptable to spend your time passing cosy little catch-up-notes," her voice was beginning to get dangerously shrill, "with a girl _whose face you spent_ _entire months trying to eat, you complete and utter hypocrite_?!"

…Alright, so now the entire shop was staring at him.

"Well…" When she put it like that, it did sound a bit…wrong. Still, there was a world of difference between Lavender and Viktor bloody Krum. "Yeah. It's not really the same is it? Lavender and," cue the sneer, "_Vicky._ She's just a bit of an airhead, that's all. Krum's from Durmstrang! You know how many Dark wizards came out of that place?"

"Viktor's deeply opposed to the Dark Arts! His grandfather was killed by Grindlewald!"

"Doesn't make any difference, does it? He's still been exposed to it all in Durmstrang. And the first sign that you still like him and," he made a sudden, angry movement, "he'll be on you like a Niffler on goblin gold!"

And then he said something very, very stupid.

"And knowing you, because he's so _brave_, and so _shy_, and so _sensitive_, and so interested in _books_, you'll probably let him!"

…Possibly not the smartest move there.

For a moment, Hermione had frozen entirely still, so still that he was almost convinced something or someone had Petrified her. And then – her arm moved so fast that it was little more than a blur, so that he didn't even see her snatch up the nearest Sneakoscope from the shelf and pitch it at his head until it hit him straight between the eyes.

"Probably let him? _Probably let him_? You UNGRATEFUL PRAT, Ronald Weasley!"

Men are…always men. There are some things that they always say in these situations, regardless of the fact that they always _know_ they'll go wrong. And Ronald Weasley was a good man, a hero in the eyes of many, co-founder of Dumbledore's Army, destroyer of horcruxes and former keeper for the Gryffidindor Quidditch team, thankyouverymuch, but – well, he was still a man. Not an entirely bright one either.

And the Sneakoscope flying towards his face had not put him in a good mood.

"Hermione, stop bloody overreacting!" he yelled hotly.

A novelty coffee mug, embossed with the design of a patterned Gobstones set, soared violently over his head and collided with the shop window.

"_Overreacting? _You call this _overreacting?_!"

At least her wand arm was shaking so hard that the jinx missed him by several feet.

"Mio – "

"Get _out_, you bloody bastard!"

"Alright, I'm goi – HERMIONE_, PUT YOUR DAMN WAND DOWN! _Oh bloody hell!"

Jeeze. Women. Still, he managed to consider even as he beat a hasty and undignified retreat from Dervish and Banges, shrieks and hexes and miscellaneous memorabilia being flung at his disappearing back, it could have gone a lot worse.

Very possibly.

-o-

Valentine's Day.

A day so overburdened with pressure, anxiety and expectations, many men decide simply not to cope with the stress. Or rather, many men's _minds_, their deepened subconscious, decide to spare the male the unbridled horror of the day, and simply banish the date to the deepest and darkest recesses of their minds. Leading many men to blissfully forget the day – until of course confronted with angered spouses and/or girlfriends, which of course adds to far more stress, horror, pressure and anxiety than their deepened subconscious ever believed possible.

Harry Potter's deepened subconscious had well and truly forgotten what date it was today.

He was sure today was _something_ important – a birthday of a family member, maybe, or maybe just the rarity of Ginny being home for once – but it didn't matter, to be honest.

Because today was the day, The Day, Finally, the One and Only.

…Actually it was his fifth attempt this month alone, but he was being optimistic.

Today was going to be The Day he finally asked Ginny to give up the Quidditch playing.

Alright, not _give up_ per say. Just maybe tone it down slightly, just _slightly_, because while of course he was awfully proud of her and loved her and was very very excited whenever the Holyhead Harpies won a match, but – well. He hadn't seen her properly in _forever_. Watching his girlfriend zoom about on the Sports page of the _Daily Prophet_ didn't quite count, somehow. And he'd read books on the subject, read deeply and studiously and sensitively – alright, he'd glanced at the back cover of one of Fleur's relationship manuals – and apparently when two people were in a relationship it was important that they spoke to each other. On a relatively regular basis.

He certainly wasn't jealous of her talents.

Absolutely not.

The fact that some of the older wizards in the Ministry had taken to calling him 'The Boy Who Couldn't Quite Fly As Fast As His Girlfriend' – and then, when he'd pointed out that this moniker didn't exactly trip of the tongue, cut to the chase with 'The Forgotten One' – was completely irrelevant.

Walking back home from the Broken Wand with Ginny – a pub in which five guys, all taller than him, had asked for Ginny's autograph and he'd been mistaken twice for the wizard who ran the Quikspell articles in the _Daily Prophet_ – he thought this over. Alright, so he missed her madly and _alright_, so the last time they'd played a bit of Quidditch one on one he'd, not to put too fine a point on it, had his arse handed to him, but this was her dream, wasn't it? Shouldn't he be supportive of her dream?

Five guys. _Five guys_. All of them, upon being introduced to them as her boyfriend, had suddenly born smirks that were distinctly resemblant of Draco Malfoy's. Hmph.

"Poor Hermione is trying to shoehorn Ron into having lunch with her parents soon," Ginny murmured, her eyes glinting in the starlight as they walked slowly back to her flat (They'd yet to find a place of their own, as 'with my training schedule it'd probably be really disruptive for you to share a flat with me'. Double hmph). "We'll be enduring a truckload of whinging from him over the next couple of days, you wait and see – "

"Ginny?"

"Yeah?"

He spoke at great length. He spoke with great eloquence. He spoke of the importance of togetherness, and communication, and of trust. He spoke of the importance of committing to a relationship. He spoke of the danger of thinking that you're going down the same road when _actually_ you were travelling down two different ones. (He wasn't entirely sure about that one. But the back of Fleur's book had spoke about that at length, and it seemed important.)

He spoke about how all the great couples of the past had, at some point, made sacrifices for each other. Um. Probably. And even the ones that didn't really seem to have done, like his parents or, for example, _her_ parents, he was sure they had done. At some point. Like Molly putting up with her dad's constant attempts to connect electricity to the Burrow, despite the fact that this had resulted in two major explosions, five small fires, and in one curious incident, connecting their new phone to a telephone box outside a New York drugstore in the 1940s. And, well, really, he'd seen his parents when they were young, and quite frankly it seemed as though his mum had made a pretty big sacrifice just to go out with his dad in the first place. So really, when she thought about it, neither of them wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for sacrifices of _some_ kind or another.

He used the word commitment five times. He spoke until they had reached Ginny's front door. He spoke about love, and dedication, and care, and a bit more about love after that because he'd ran out of things to say. And hmm. And um. And, well. Please?

Ginny was looking at him quite oddly.

"Harry?"

"Yes?"

"What exactly is it that you wanted?"

Ah.

"Your – um. Your Quidditching. Your Quidditch playing. Well I don't get to see you that much anymore and – well, the Harpies, and – you're always in the papers now, and – _five guys_ tonight, and...well. Could you maybe...let it go? Just a little bit? Please?"

She looked at him. And looked at him. And looked at him some more.

"And then – you know. It can be, well. Just the two of us. Kind of. I mean."

"And it would be good. Um. Because, well, you know. I love you. Um."

"And, well. Settling. House. Together. Us. And maybe - well. Marriage? Possibly? Um. Yes. That."

It occurred to him that this was very much a one-sided conversation.

Ginny was still watching him through narrowed eyes. He shifted from one foot to the other, chewing on his lip and carrying an internal debate of how to make 'Um' sound at all debonair and romantic, because quite frankly it was the only thing he could think of to say. And when at last he'd given up all hope of ever speaking coherently again, Ginny cleared her throat.

"Harry, do you have anything planned tonight?"

This sounded promising.

"No-oo – but if you like, I can cancel what plans I _don't_ have, and – "

"Or do you have anything for me?"

He blinked, and then leaned over to give her a kiss.

"I love you?"

Silence.

"...Not enough? I can make you a cup of tea when we get in if you like."

She folded her arms, leaning against her front door and gave him another curious look. "Are you sure you don't have anything you want to give me? Any little token or symbol, anything reminiscent of the romantic gesture, anything to do with the date today?"

"Umm. No."

Her eyes narrowed. "You do _know_ what date it is today, right?"

Huh.

Anniversary…no.

Birthday…nooo.

Any major league or tournament date? He didn't think so.

Wasn't this maybe the day she'd first mastered the Bat Bogey Hex, aged only fourteen?

Wasn't that just a _little_ bit petty to expect him to remember that?

"Well, honestly Ginny, I reckon you're expecting a _lot_ to think I'll remember the date today…"

Ginny had gone very, very still.

Almost eerily still. Almost – and he wished he wasn't making the comparison quite so vividly – the way a Chimera was supposed to freeze the moment before it pounced on its hopeless, hapless victim, tearing it limb from miserable limb…

She couldn't be _that_ proud of her Bat Bogey Hex, could she?

"You think – and do correct me if I've misunderstood – that I should settle down, give up my dream, and commit to this relationship. Commit to _our_ relationship. And you don't know the date today."

Why did he get the feeling that the remaining seconds of his life were trickling out from beneath him, like the last sands in the hourglass?

"That sounds about right, yeah."

Ginny's eyes hadn't left his. They weren't _blinking_. Surely that sort of thing hurt, after a little while? And really, her level of stillness was _amazing. _She should really employ that on the Quidditch pitch.

"I'm…sorry?"

Maybe he shouldn't have suggested the give-up-Quidditch-forever-and-marry-him-thing. Just the marry-him-thing was the important part. Even if it did sort of bug him that he had a girlfriend that was possibly better at Quidditch than him. Possibly.

"Look, I'm not saying give up _completely…_"

"Right," his girlfriend voiced finally, snapping from her weird little spaced-out state, as if she hadn't even heard him. Her voice was still pretty creepily stiff. "Well, let me consider my response to that. I'm afraid you may have to give me a moment."

A moment!

Thinking!

Sure, her voice was a little odd, but this was progress!

Grinning, he nodded happily, already leaning in to claim a kiss from her lips when Ginny calmly stepped back into the flat, shutting the door in his face. He did a little jig in the hallway instead. Probably about to change into something less comfortable and more romantic. Probably about to officially accept his semi-proposal at long last. Who knew the legendary Potter charm had been so clearly passed on in the bloodline from father to son…

A piercing shriek echoed from somewhere behind the door.

"_Bloody, unthinking, stupid, thoughtless BASTARD!"_

…Then again, maybe not.

-o-

Valentine's Day.

A day forever linked with the most sappy, ridiculous, _unbelievably_ corny displays. But also a day forever linked with the connotations of romance, and therefore a day where so many women were perfectly willing to spend intimate evenings with men who – well, let's just say, may not have as many scruples as they could.

Draco Malfoy was one such man happily unburdened from scruples.

As such, he suspected it was going to be a good night.

Let's start with the flat.

This flat was incredibly smart, stylish – _cool,_ for wont of a better word. With enough Quidditch memorabilia and magical gadgets to stock a small shop, but nonetheless a smart flat, because this was his permanent residence and Draco was beginning to grudgingly realise that he couldn't live on his parents' wealth at the manor forever. At least not if he wanted to bring women back to the manor without his mother popping out from the shadows at...unfortunate moments. So the flat was kitted out entirely as he wanted, all dark green and embossed books on Dark hexes. Sure, it might have been a bit smaller and less costly than was to his tastes, but it was his own place, and besides, Malfoy Manor was brimming full of expensive kit. And while he loved his parents, it was a comfort to know it would all come to him in the fullness of time.

Of course, there were items dispersed around the flat that most certainly did not belong to him, but to someone far more detached from reality and good taste – not to mention all-round sanity – than him. Such as a t-shirt bearing the colours of the _Falmouth Falcons_ stuffed under his pillow, make-up abandoned in the bathroom, and even a book entitled – _shudder_ - _Gadding with Ghouls._ And therein lay the problem.

Astoria Greengrass. The bane of his existence.

…And, inexplicably, the girl he was shagging two or three times a week.

It wasn't his fault. He hadn't _meant_ to start off this ridiculous fling, for want of a better word, but a drunken encounter at a Ministry party that had resulted in the pair of them waking in a tangle of arms and legs the following morning had changed his mind just a bit. And then one thing had led to another, and now the blasted woman was popping around every other day and kicking him whenever he said anything even vaguely prick-ish, and taking up his time _and for the love of Merlin he could not stop thinking about her._

Impossible. Simply and completely impossible. It wasn't even as if he _enjoyed_ her company, what with her complete disregard for rational behaviour and awful table manners and those _horrific_ romance novels she insisted on reading. (Alright, so he'd flicked through one. _One_. It had been a deeply scarring experience.) And as for her desire to make jibes at every single thing he did or said…As if she could talk. Urgh. What about the articles she wrote in the Daily Prophet as a freelance journalist? Which were annoying and redundant and biased _completely_ in favour with blood-traitors and muggle-borns and what was _really_ exasperating was the fact that sometimes he could actually see her point. And she was loud and sarcastic and somehow cheerful and cynical at the same time and she couldn't even _dance_ without making a fool of herself, and honestly, it wasn't even as though they were in a – pause for effect and a patented Malfoy Sneer – _relationship_.

It was just messing around.

Hence tonight.

Now, where the hell was that blasted bottle? He grimaced blackly as he knelt on the bed, head hanging down beneath it so he could scan most thoroughly for the elusive bottle of elf-made wine. It was bound to be in here somewhere…

He'd brought it up with his parents once, in a joking, sarcastic, ha-ha-how-ridiculous-would-this-be-and-really-why- would-anyone-want-to-date-_Astoria-Greengrass_ sort of way. And Dad had spluttered, and Mum had fixed him with a very serious look and laid her perfectly manicured fingers against his shoulders and explained that, while Astoria was a perfectly darling girl who came from a very pure, wealthy and _strategic_ family, hadn't he read that article she'd written in the Daily Prophet about the successes of co-operation between the magical and Muggle communities? Not to mention that six-thousand word sarcastic diatribe on the state of pure-blood families in the wizarding world today? (As a matter of fact, he had. Astoria had sat on his chest and wouldn't let him up until he'd read them. She'd used the phrase 'stuck-up, holier-than-thou inbreds' at least three times. He'd counted.) And really, Draco, allying with the Dark Lord had been a mistake, yes, but the family still had Standards. Not to mention Views. And maybe her sister Daphne might be a better choice, although the way that girl carries on no-one truly expects for her to settle down and start a family, have you seen the way she behaves at parties, and really, she might be a little shrill on the ears but how do you feel about getting in touch with Pansy again?

So that was that then.

Anyway, it didn't matter. Not tonight. Tonight the mere thought of Astoria Greengrass was getting ceremonially booted out of his head, because earlier this morning he had finally asked out the, quite frankly, _gorgeous_ half-Veela who worked with Theo Nott at the Ministry, the one with the long blonde hair and legs up to her shoulders, whose robes never quite managed to button up over her chest. And approximately fifteen minutes ago she'd Floo'd over and was right now in the sitting room, waiting. In his flat. Alone. For him.

Oh. Hell. Yeah.

Ha! Found the little bugger, although Merlin knew how it had rolled so far down beneath his bed, next to a copy of _Quidditch Through The Ages_ from when he was about seven. He dimly remembered beginning to share it with 'Tor a couple of weeks ago, but the cork had been difficult to lever off and then they'd gotten a bit…distracted…

It probably said something quite serious about his state of mind that he was planning to share a bottle of wine with a girl he'd just asked out that he had previously been going to share with a girl he was casually sleeping with.

…Nah.

Tucking the wine beneath his arm he very nearly skipped down the corridor, coming to a halt outside the living room and hastily adjusting his collar. All dressed in black, of course. Everything was perfect – the candlelight dim, the radio soft, and he could just about spot the delicate outline of a young woman eating the fruit he'd carefully laid out on an engraved silver platter.

"Put down that mango, my dear," he drawled lazily. "It's time you tasted the forbidden fruit."

Smooth. _So_ smooth.

And just as he was congratulating himself on practically sealing the deal already the figure in the armchair sat back up to reveal not shimmering blond hair, but dark curls, slender features, and a particularly impish expression.

"HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!"

Astoria rose her eyebrows, reaching up with slender fingers to rub her ears in what was most likely meant to be an extremely comical gesture. "Hi, Draco. Nice line, by the way. Nearly as crap as the '_It would take more than a Memory Charm to make me forget you'_ one from fifth year."

Ah yes. That was the other annoying thing about Astoria. Other girls tended to love it when he was suave and charming. Pansy melted at it, the witches in the Ministry melted at it. But nooo, Astoria had to just to turn around and tell him he was being an arse. No wonder he was annoyed at seeing her here.

Oh, apart from the little matter where _it was her in the flat instead of the sexiest woman on the face of the planet._

"Where's – where's – " He paused for a moment, and pretended he was simply overcome with indignation rather than admit the awkward truth that he couldn't actually remember the girl's name. "…Fion?"

If Astoria had cost him a night with that fantastic creature he would never forgive her. _Never_.

"Felicia, actually, Draco." Astoria was grinning a little too much for his liking. "Well, when I Floo'd by she was sitting around, probably freezing to death due to the fact that her clothes seemed incredibly flimsy for a February evening." She smirked at the anguished look on his face and continued. "And we had a little girl chat, just the two of us, and she told me to tell you that you're a lying, immoral, conniving piece of slime and she never wants to see you again as long as she lives."

Right.

Ok.

So.

Let's review.

Astoria had indeed cost him a night with the most gorgeous, sexy, magnificent woman he'd ever laid eyes on, and now she was smirking at him.

…There was a distinct chance he would have to kill someone.

He closed his eyes, teeth grinding against each other. "Astoria…"

"I offered to come back in five minutes once you were done!"

Make that the _definite possibility_ he was going to kill someone.

When he said nothing, instead choosing to clench his jaw until he could feel a vein throbbing viciously in his neck, Astoria chose instead to let out another leisurely chuckle, flinging herself back onto the leather armchair as if she were the bloody queen of the flat. "She seemed interesting."

"She was half Veela," he snapped. Not that it really explained anything, but it was certainly one of the facts that was sticking in his head at the moment.

"Oh. Sad for you!"

Was there any way of making her death look like an accident?

Poison, maybe. After all it had nearly worked on Weasley, and he hadn't even been _meaning_ to attack _him_…

"I do hope I haven't upset you," Astoria remarked primly, in a way that suggested she was anything but.

"Upset?" he snapped. Bloody hell – forget poison, he was just going to wring her neck and have done with the whole sorry mess. Bloody, bloody Astoria. "Oh, why should I be upset? Just because you manage to stick your nose in when it's not wanted every single sodding time something starts to go right for me? I'd drive a stake through your heart but I doubt anything could _kill_ you!"

Alright, maybe he was a little upset.

"Oh, well forgive me!" she retorted. For the first time since he'd entered the room and saw her sitting there with that damn little smirk on her lips there was a flash of something other than mischief in her eyes. "Considering I'm here every other day I assumed I'd be welcome tonight!"

"I would have dropped round afterwards," he muttered derisively.

Something told him that was the wrong thing to say.

"I _beg _your very dear pardon?"

"You know…" He folded his arms. "If the date hadn't gone according to plan."

Ok, definitely the wrong thing to say.

Silence. And the wrong kind of silence, the silence which Draco was pretty damn sure meant Curses, Hexes and Other Bad Things because yeah, let's be honest, this wasn't exactly the first time he'd pissed Astoria off before. Not that he intended to, really, at least not on a regular basis, but she was so easy to annoy, and Merlin, why was _she_ being the one getting antsy when he was the one who had _nearly slept with a Veela._ Not a full blown Veela, obviously, just a half-Veela, but still, who the hell could lay claim to getting a half-Veela anyway? No-one that he knew. And he'd been so close, and she'd Ruined It. Ruined it, because that's what bloody Astoria bloody well did, what she always did, and he wasn't exactly a religious man, but he was starting to think that whatever Powers That Be might be floating around up there in the ether had shoved her back into his life for the one and only purpose of punishing him for every sodding thing he'd done wrong with the Death Eaters, back in the bad old days. It was the only reason he could think of that she was still _here_, well maybe not the only reason, but the only reason he was willing to credit. And he wanted her _out_, just out, because that way she wouldn't be _here_, looking at him like that and oh Merlin, but the way she was looking at him, it wasn't so much anger as god-knew-he-didn't-really-want-to-credit-it-but-ma ybe-possibly-actual-upset, and this Astoria thing that shouldn't even be a thing was driving him nuts. Let's be honest, _she_ was driving him nuts. She was annoying and ridiculous, and hell, he didn't actually want to hurt her, but he was pretty sure that not screwing up as far as _this_ went was pretty much impossible, and maybe he should just deliberately mess everything up and save himself the time and suspense, at least he'd get it over with quickly and everyone was expecting him to screw up anyway so at least she wouldn't be surprised -

"_According to plan_?"

Oh, good. Anger rather than upset. This, at least, he knew how to deal with.

"That's what I – "

"_Merlin_! You sodding little bastard, Malfoy! What am I, your back up? I was just sitting home with my cats and my knitting waiting for you to show up, was that the idea?"

"Wouldn't have surprised me."

He managed to wrench the platter out of arms reach before she chucked it at his head.

With an angry toss of the head she stormed into the kitchen. "I don't believe you – how do you fit your head through doorways these days? You utter, utter prick…I didn't _mean_ getting together as a _date_, I'd rather be _Crucio'd_ to within an inch of my _life_ than be your _date_, I just damn well thought that this little 'arrangement' stretched further than 'days-when-Malfoy-isn't-trying-to-get-it-off-with- a-French-_airhead'_!"

"Well, if you thought that…" The clink and chink of moving crockery caught his ear. "Ooh, are you doing my washing up?"

There was a crash from within the kitchen. A very expensive crash.

"…Maybe not?"

He approached gingerly. Yes, there went his dishes, one after the other, all into the washing up bowl. The fact that there was no water, and Astoria was attempting to throw them in with all the vehemence of the _Falmouth Falcons'_ leading Beater was not improving their cleanliness one bit.

"Come _on_," he snapped irritably. "You know full well my mother would never approve of something so ridiculous as – well, let's be honest – _you_!"

"What a mummy's boy! Does she still do your laundry for you, Draco?"

"Alright, now you're just being ridiculous – my mother has never cleaned anything in her life!"

_Crash_. There went the dragonglass goblets. "I know she was still buying your underwear for you until you moved out."

"Hey! I told you that in confidence!"

She was still fuming, in that way that suggested steam was going to start escaping from her ears at any time now. "And for your information, I have damn better things to do than hang around here with you! I actually have a date!"

Ha! Date! As if Astoria would actually have a - wait, what?

"Beg pardon?"

"You heard me! With that Quidditch player, Marco Prettia! He asked me out tonight!"

Malfoy briefly entertained fleeting but most pleasing fantasies of taking aforementioned Prettia to London Zoo and feeding him to the sea lions.

"_Him?_ You actually – _him_?"

"Well he _had_ asked me if I wanted to go to dinner tonight!" Astoria yelled, flinging crockery into the washing-up at random until the sounds of smashing china greeted his ears. "To the _Enchanted Grotto_, actually, which happens to be a very nice restaurant, thankyou so very much! And I _had_ cancelled because I thought I was spending the evening with you, but now I might not bother!"

"Fine!" He bellowed back, snatching a particularly well-crafted porcelain bowl from her hands before it met its end in a bowl of desecrated crockery. "And maybe _I'll_ just find Fio –" cue a snort from Astoria, " - _Felicia_ and bring her back here!"

"Oh, good luck with that!"

Draco snorted darkly. He could feel his face warp once more into the trademark Malfoy Sneer, allowed it to grace his features in all its malicious glory as he shook his head. "And good luck getting hold of _Pretty_ tonight. I don't suppose he's holding out much hope for your owl – "

"For Merlin's sake – "

" – Or maybe international Quidditch stars frequently hold their schedule for girls who sleep around with their co-workers!"

Astoria's face was a brilliant shade of scarlet as one hand flung out to point at the door, narrowly missing his eye. "GET OUT!"

He was halfway to the door before he spun around. "_I LIVE HERE!"_

"Well – _FINE_!"

Well. That was her told. He'd really put his foot down and laid down the law there.

Didn't quite stop the mad bat from hurling a copy of _Quidditch through the Ages_ at his face on the way out though.

-o-

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

**title:** The Least Wonderful Time of the Year: Pt 2

**summary:** In which our three heroes join forces, and make a monumental cock-up of taming their womenfolk.

-o-

Surprisingly enough the Three Broomsticks, with its cosy fireplaces, festive air, and handily-placed shadowy little corners, was not a favourite haunt of the romantic couple on Valentine's Day. It was, however, a comfortable spot for all the beleaguered, the stupid and the just plain forgetful who had retreated from their significant others to take refuge. Here the pathetic and the lovelorn sipped at butterbeer, bemoaned their woes, and above all contemplated the phrase 'Oh, Valentine's Day? No, I don't want anything for Valentine's Day, honest."

Hannah Longbottom loved it. Madame Rosmerta told her she'd never seen a Valentine's Day yet where the pub didn't make a two hundred percent profit over the course of the evening.

In lieu of either barmaid, both of whom had left him to his misery after the first half hour of grumbling, Harry Potter poured out his woes to the moulting stuffed Kneazle propped up behind the bar.

"Simple! Bloody simple, wasn't it? Ask the girl you love to give up her dream and instead settle down to marry you. Well, maybe not give up on her dream _per say_, just maybe...be a little less good at it? Or maybe – I don't know, find a new dream, one where I don't look like such a runt in front of all those other gits that try to chat her up. Seriously, why are all of them so much taller than me? But oh no no, she had to completely lose it, had to act as though I was manacling her to the kitchen sink or something like that – "

"Sounds like you did well tonight, mate."

He turned around and abruptly recoiled back. There he was, his best friend, the hero of the Battle of Hogwarts, of the Ministry of Magic and a dozen other skirmishes, looking as beleaguered and woe-begone as Harry had ever seen him. One corner of Ron's robes was hanging from his shoulder, his jaw gaped listlessly, and – was that the imprint of a _Sneakoscope_ on his forehead? The poor bloke wasn't just walking, he was staggering, as if from a terror-strewn battlefield. Harry Potter had seen one or two terror-strewn battlefields in his time, and he was pretty sure that that was how you staggered away from one.

"You look bloody awful. What happened?" A disturbing thought occurred to him. "You didn't set another Venomous Tentacula on her, did you?"

Ron shuddered. "I wish."

The Chosen One drew up a barstool for his friend. Anything worse than the Venomous Roses escapade had to be bad.

"We were just doing a bit of last-minute shopping," he grumbled. "_Two_ more minutes, and then back to my place for a Valentine's dinner. It was all so bloody _close_ – you know, I had a lot of ground to make up for after that cherub incident last year – "

Harry nodded sagely. Arrows coming in at inopportune moments could really ruin the mood. And as for that particularly fat cherub whose wings got caught in Hermione's hair…

"_Anyway_, we were almost ready to go home, and then _bam_, Hermione mentions _Vicky_." His best friend's face crumpled into an expression of permanent dislike. "And, y'know, I may have mentioned that I didn't ever want her talking to the Bulgarian git ever again, and _she_ then noticed that me and Lavender were still chatting, and – well, now she's thrown about half of Dervish and Bangs' stock at my head and stormed off. And said something about finding an article in _Witch Weekly_ that'll remove my manhood from the rest of my body, except I'm not entirely convinced she was joking about that."

Ha. Ron. Poor, silly, thoughtless Ron. Imagine telling Hermio – wait. What?

"Valentine's?"

Ron peered over the rim of his tankard. "You didn't forget, did you?"

Yes.

"Nooo."

"Yes you did. You forgot Valentine's Day." The young man narrowed his eyes darkly, taking a long, slow sip from his butterbeer. "You confronted my sister about committing to your relationship and giving up on her dream to be with you and so on and so forth – and you forgot Valentine's Day. How stupid _are_ you?"

"Did you or did you not tell Hermione to never contact Viktor Krum again, and then in the same sentence admit you're still chatting to your bimbo ex-girlfriend?"

"…Ah."

Morosely Ron swigged down on his Butterbeer, muttering something particularly unrepeatable beneath his breath. Evidently the universe was conspiring against him.

This hypothesis was confirmed with great panache by the universe when the next person to storm into the Three Broomsticks was Draco Malfoy.

The former Gryffindor made an ugly face. Forgiveness and the healing of old wounds be buggered – despite the continuous advice of Hermione that the only way to repair the wizarding community was to trust each other again, there was no getting round the fact that Malfoy was, to all intents and purposes, a tosser. Harry had once told him that he and Ferret Face had learned to tolerate each other when they came into contact at the Ministry. Ron had found a far more elegant solution to the problem – ignore the slimy git, and occasionally throw things at the back of his head whenever possible.

His hand began inching towards the empty bowl of peanuts on the bar.

For a moment the young man's eyes scanned across the crowded room, before coming to sit with a huff on the stool next to them. Ron made an inaudible sound in the back of his throat.

"Before you start getting your wand in a knot, Weasley," Malfoy announced with a snarl to the row of Firewhisky and Dragonrum bottles adorning the top shelf of the bar, "I'm going to ignore you both, so you and your little boyfriend can just enjoy your drink in peace."

"Hello to you too, slimeball."

Harry rolled his eyes.

"Nothing to add, Malfoy?" Ron continued recklessly after another ten minutes of sullen silence coming from his left. The former Slytherin was radiating the air of the deeply aggrieved – not to mention reasonably drunk. "You're not being your usual charming self."

The other man scoffed. "Please. You're perfectly normal, sane company after what I've had to deal with."

Well, just pfft to that. Had Malfoy had a hard life? Had he been saddled with the world's most insane – not to mention downright violent – girlfriend? Had he ever been driven into the cold, cold winds by said violent girlfriend hurling the entire contents of _Dervish and Banges_ at his head? Did Malfoy know what it was like to go skidding down the road with an entire set of Gobstones being hurled one by one at his back? For that matter, had Malfoy ever had a demented flock of canaries set on him? A half-mad, rabies-infected cat try to chew his arm off? No, Malfoy knew none of these miseries. Sod.

"Cry me a river," Ron hiccupped darkly. "Whatever you've been through today...I guarantee I've been through worse."

"Oh yeah? Did you just nearly get kicked out of your own apartment by some hell-bent, deranged harpy?"

"No…" He paused briefly. "It sounds like a good story. Carry on!"

The former Slytherin glared at him, before scowling and taking a swig from a glass containing something toxic-looking enough to clean drains. "That damn…_Greengrass _brat decided it would be fun to try and throw me out of my own flat. Vicious little brat." He took another swig, and nearly choked.

There was a deep, solemn pause for thought.

"Astoria Greengrass?" Harry remarked. Vague memories of a short, dark-haired girl attempting to set Malfoy's trousers on fire in the middle of the Great Hall filtered through his brain. "I always got the impression she hated you."

"Yeah, well, _now_ she does."

"So what was she even doing in your flat?"

"Please, I wouldn't even let her set foot in my home if there weren't," there was a pause for the patented Malfoy Smirk, "compensatory factors."

The most coherent sound able to escape Ron's lips was: '_eew'_.

Why was it always the bastards that got the girls? Malfoy, Krum – was it the whole black-looks-stylish thing? Or had some kind of severe and violent brain damage just been experienced by the majority of the witching world?

Harry tapped his chin thoughtfully. "And you didn't feel the need to correct her at any point. Maybe kick _her _out?"

Malfoy levelled the two of them with a look that one might fling to a particularly slow troll. "You really don't know Astoria, do you?" When both of them shook their heads, he shivered. For a moment the ghosts of a particularly savage war appeared to flit past his eyes. Ron had seen that look before, albeit on the faces of extremely traumatised St Mungo's patients. "She's…a scary lady," he muttered, downing a second drink. "Think of your worst Bogart, yeah? Now double it. _Triple_ that. And you still wouldn't come close to how downright terrifying that girl is."

"And this is the girl who just nearly chucked you out of your apartment."

"How can you be with someone who keeps you terrified for your very life?" Ron sneered.

The door to the Three Broomsticks exploded open once more. "And you're still coming to dinner with my parents on Saturday, Ron Weasley! I don't care if I have to drag you there by your bollocks!"

"Anything you say, Hermione!"

He glanced back. Malfoy was very pointedly not looking in his direction.

"Completely different situation."

-o-

The hours had slipped past on the giant grandfather clock in the centre of the room. Many drinks had been drunk. Many, _many_ drinks. Some of the more sober patrons were beginning to take bets on who would be the first to fall from their bar stool. The smart money was currently on Ron, who was swaying from one side to the other with alarming alacrity, although Malfoy's current goal of unsteadily leaning his stool back so only two legs touched the floor was gaining some interest. Harry, slumped spread-eagled against the bar, was fully out of the running.

"Women!" As Ron managed briefly to become vertical he made a miserable gesture. "They overreact, and scream at you, and throw things at you…"

"Like books."

"Eh?"

He swivelled in his chair to glare blearily at the Malfoy heir. The Malfoy heir currently swigging from a shot glass and occasionally poking it when the drink ran out.

"Like books. They throw books at you. Your own books. Not _their_ books, _no_-no-no-no-no, they don't have the common decency to throw their own books at you, they go and bloody pinch yours!"

Ron nodded very soberly – or, in this case, rather drunkenly. It all made perfect sense. What a wise man Malfoy was!

"Yes! And Sneakoscopes!"

"_Yes_!"

"And then – then they scream bloody murder at you again!"

"Yes!"

"And make unreasonable demands!"

"Yes! And blame you for trying to get into bed with flipping _fantastic_ Veelas!"

"…Sorry?"

The Slytherin waved a hand amiably. "Brought this girl home – half Veela y'know – and 'Tor was there. Bloody ruined it. Ruined my chances with Fio – no, Fai – dammit, I _knew_ her name…Bloody sexy though."

Ron blinked.

"So you keep on sleeping with this brilliant girl and at the same time go off having affairs with gorgeous, desireable Veela women? That's not – it's not – " He trailed off. "It's just not fair…"

"Damn straight it isn't fair; she was gorgeous! And then – and then – and then 'Tor has to go off and say she's going to go out with this," the mood dropped significantly, "_Quidditch star_."

Boo. Hiss. The temperature of the room dropped dramatically.

"Bloody Quidditch stars!"

"Bloody international Quidditch stars!"

"Bloody Quidditch!" Harry chimed in weakly, who until now had felt rather redundant, and was enjoying having something to join in with.

Malfoy pointed a finger at him – or at the very least, made a valiant attempt to do so. "You wait Potter. Just you bleeding wait." With an irritable gesture he reached out with his spare hand to keep the waving finger steady. "Two months down the line, your girlfriend'll be shacking up – "

" - _oi tha's my sister_ – "

" – s-sorry – with some poncy Quidditch star with a name like _Prettia_, or _Gosanovsky_, or – "

"Vikky!"

"Who?"

"Viktor. Viktor Krum." Ron put his head to one side. "Why, what d'you call this bloke – the one 'Toria's run off with?"

"Pretty. Sounds kind of like Prettia."

"Oh. Nice."

"Thankyou."

"Welcome." The young Weasley nodded imperiously to his two companions. "B-But I put down the law, didn'n I? Told her never to speak to again. Ha! I put my foot down. Showed her who was in charge." He patted his pockets mournfully as he spoke. "Would've been nice if she'd let me keep my house keys though…"

Women. Sodding women. Who knew what went through their minds? Apart from, y'know, the actual women themselves. They probably knew. Ron continued to sip sadly at his drink, in mourning for the days when his girlfriend was normal and he didn't have the imprint of a Sneakoscope embedded in his forehead. Those far-off glory days of battling spiders and Death Eaters seemed so far away.

"So, let me get this straight," Malfoy interrupted slowly, peering with hazy uncertainty through the tumbler of Ridgeback Rum he'd ordered. "You ordered Granger to never contact her friend Krum again."

"Yes."

"Your _girlfriend_ Granger."

"Yes."

"And Krum."

"Indeed."

"In case anything happened."

"Damn straight."

"_Viktor_ Krum."

"You are correct."

"The international Quidditch star, Viktor Krum."

"Indeedy."

From somewhere behind the pair, Harry groaned. He'd not yet ingested as much alcohol as his companions, and was dearly hoping this was going somewhere.

"From Bulgaria."

"Yessir."

"The international Bulgarian Quidditch star, Viktor Krum, who," Draco reached down warily to make a grab for the wizarding papers piled at the edge of the bar, and waved a section of the _Daily Prophet_ in Ron's face, "got engaged last week to his teammate's sister after a year of dating."

"Ye – eh?"

The page was laid down with great aplomb. Ron stared at the cutting once, and then twice. And then a third time. Come to think of it, Hermione had mentioned something about a girl called Svetlanka…

Malfoy was smirking.

"I'm such an idiot…"

"I've been saying that for over ten years," Malfoy replied magnanimously, and waved a hand with regal cheer, "have another drink."

-o-

A few hours, and many drinks, later...

"Y'know what?" Ron announced merrily to the world at large. "Stuff it. Bloody well stuff it. I'm not going to compete with Vikky…I'm – I'm gonna be the _anti-_Vikki."

Malfoy blinked up from where he had taken up residence somewhere beneath Harry's bar stool. "You're going to be not handsome, not intelligent, not talented?"

"…Well no. Some other way."

Harry strenuously fought the urge to aim a kick at the blond head currently lolling against his seat. There was no denying he was getting thoroughly sick of the whole thing; managing to drink his body weight with his best friend and worst enemy was _not_ how he had planned to spend Valentine's Day.

…had he actually remembered Valentines' Day, which he hadn't.

He shook his head and straightened up, with the air of a veteran general girding himself for battle.

"Now look," Harry said, with more confidence than he actually felt. "We're all men here – manly men – "

"Present company excepted," Ron, who hadn't appreciated the anti-Vikki jibe, added spitefully.

Malfoy chose that moment to throw a small olive at his head.

"We are _men._" Harry ploughed on regardless, talking with all the self-confidence of a man who has downed more than his fair share of Ogden's Old Firewhisky. "_Manly_ men. And as such we should not be allowing ourselves to be driven into hiding by our own girlfriends! We should be standing up to our womenfolk!"

He lifted his chin and blinked through double-vision to regard his brothers-in-arms.

"Right – _right_ – you and you," he poked his fingers in their general direction, missing by several yards, "and me, we are all going to deal with them, and we're not going to return until we have succeeded! We shall be firm but fair! Are you with me?"

The three slipped from their seats – or, in Malfoy's case, struggled with some difficulty from his position on the floor – and marched towards the door, ready to do battle.

_..._

_"Ginny, I realise that you have been under stress recently, and that is why I am going to be perfectly reasonable, and just let tonight, and your unfair reaction, go – "_

_..._

_"- all things considered, 'Mione, and bloody irrational behaviour aside, it's Valentine's Day, and so I am proposing - in the spirit of good will and romance and all that - to let go of your ridiculous obsession with Krum – "_

_..._

_"- So, all in all, I am perfectly willing to listen to your apology, batshit crazy lady though you might be. You may now present it to me."_

...

"Tell me, Potter," Malfoy growled into his Ridgeback Rum fifteen minutes later, nursing an arm that had very recently been Transfigured briefly into an octopus' tentacle, "was it this attention to detail and meticulous level of planning that allowed you to defeat the Dark Lord?"

"Shut up, Malfoy."

-o-


End file.
